


No Rescue

by Molly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, Episode Related, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Het, Mind Control, Rape, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-14
Updated: 2010-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molly/pseuds/Molly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during Born Under a Bad Sign. <em>Meg, while possessing Sam, uses his body and his powers against Jo.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	No Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> **Please heed the warnings and tags.** They're spoilers, but not much more so than the pairing is. If the story hits your kinks, you won't mind; and if it doesn't, you really really will. More detailed warnings at the end of the story.

She's tied and gagged. This is the worst part.

No. His smile is the worst part. His eyes are the worst part. His hand, hot and huge, sliding over the curve of her breast. The touch is whisper-soft, barely there. It says he can do anything he wants to her, and she can't stop him. It says she's nothing to him, and she knows that's true. All that's left to learn is if he's got time to follow through.

"Don't worry, Jo," he says, and that smile flashes out, sharper than his knife, dripping with false concern. "I don't want to hurt you. I've never been one to get off on pain. Pain is so easy. You can get it anywhere. I'm a little more... complicated."

He leans in, his face close enough to bite if not for the gag. His breath drifts over her skin, cinnamon sweet, and if she survives this she'll hate that smell for the rest of her life. She'll smell it in her nightmares. She wonders if he knows it.

"Sam's screaming bloody murder in here," he says, and taps against the side of his head. "Bet you're screaming pretty loud in there, too. Quite a racket, between the two of you. It's kind of awesome."

He nuzzles against the side of her head, mouth dragging wetly along her cheek; then he flicks his tongue out, thick and warm, and drags it down under her ear. He bites at her earlobe, tender, like he thinks he's her lover. "He can taste you," he whispers to her. "He can feel your skin, Jo. When this is all over, he's going to know you like nobody has known you in your life."

 _It's not Sam,_ she tells herself. Truthfully she's never cared about Sam, never wondered about him, never seen him as anything but an extension of Dean. And she's paying the price -- fooled too easy, because she never really paid attention. But _it's not Sam,_ and that's important, because she's not alone here. No matter how alone she feels, it's just another lie. If Sam is awake in there, he's looking at her out of those eyes, and he'll try to stop it. Somehow, some way, maybe he can stop it.

"There's a lot you don't know about him," he says as he pulls back. His hand traces along her collarbone, down into the V of her shirt. Back up again, where the fabric hits her shoulder. "Did you know he's got demon blood in him? Makes holding on in here a lot easier, let me tell you. He's made for it. Kinda like subsidized housing for the corporeally impaired. Got a lot of fun tricks in here, too," he says, and Jo doesn't know what that means, until a whiplash of pain flares in her head and sets off a chain of blinding flashes in her eyes. She gasps through the gag and arches with agony, and when it ends, an eternity later when it ends, she sags against the ropes that bind her to the post and tries to catch her breath.

"Sorry about that," he says, and it almost sounds like he means it. "I'm still figuring out the controls. But I think it worked; we don't need these anymore."

He twirls his knife in front of her eyes, smirking, and slides the flat of the blade under the gag, cold metal a shock against her skin. In the second it falls away she tries to scream, wake somebody, _call_ somebody, but her mouth doesn't move. Her tongue stays still behind her teeth. Her throat works, but no sound comes out.

He slices the ropes at her wrists, her waist, her feet. She doesn't move. She tries, and tries, and tries. Nothing works.

"See there?" he says. "Our boy's got hidden talents. Hope you weren't planning on going anywhere any time soon, Jo. I'm afraid you're still a little tied up."

 _It's not real,_ she thinks, _it can't be real, this doesn't happen,_ but she knows better.

She's been taught to believe.

His eyes run over her, and they're warm and normal eyes, a little brown and a little green, not that she could have told anybody what color Sam's eyes were before. Now she wishes they were black all through, so she could hold on tight to the difference. Instead it's just Sam, goofy and pissy Sam, who followed along behind Dean like an overgrown puppy but never got in her way. Sam's eyes raking over her body like she hasn't got any clothes on, like he can see under her skin. Like he'd _like_ to.

His fingers trace over her eyebrows, soft over her eyelids, down her cheeks. She can blink, and she does, tears rising up in her eyes but not quite falling. His thumb presses against her cheekbone, slides down to rub at the corner of her mouth. "Pretty girl," he murmurs, "pretty, pretty girl," and his thumb shifts between her lips, sliding over her teeth. "Open up," he says, and she can't, she wouldn't anyway but she _can't_ , and he laughs, this bright and unfettered laugh she can't imagine anybody ever heard coming out of Sam Winchester. "Ooops," he says. "Guess I'll have to do all the hard work," and he tugs her chin down, opening her mouth.

"There we go. Not so bad so far, right?" He pulls at her lower lip, slides his finger into her mouth. His skin is callused, rough against her tongue, salty. Her breath is coming faster, she can't stop it, her heart racing. She's not getting out of this. He rubs against her tongue, smiling into her eyes, eyes that can't look away. "Soft," he says. "Girls are always so soft."

He moves, then, lifts her, like she weighs nothing, a doll in his arms. "Gonna go up to your room now, Jo," he says softly. "Gonna get in your bed, right up where you say your prayers at night. How do you like that idea?"

He moves like he knows the way, and maybe he does. Maybe he gets it from Sam. Neither of the Winchesters would spend much time in a place where they didn't know the layout. He carries her up the stairs, he even skips the one step that always lets out a crack like a shotgun. He knows.

Her bedroom is bright from the silver moon shining in through the white curtains, cool from the wind that never seems to stop out here on the edge of nowhere. He sets her down on the old threadbare carpet and she can stand, that's one thing she can do. He's behind her, his body throwing off heat like a furnace, pressing every curve of her body against every line of his. His hands fold over her upper arms, pulling her back even further. "Nice," he breathes, bending down to rub his face against her hair. "You smell good. What kind of shampoo is that?" He laughs. "I guess you can't tell me, can you? Guess we'll have to save the small talk for later."

She trembles. Her limbs feel like they're encased in amber, but adrenaline courses through her and she trembles against him. She wants to say, stop; to say, please don't. But the words turn into moan of fear in her throat, a slur of aimless vowels on her tongue. Her mouth opens maybe a millimeter, maybe a little more, then stops as if held in a vise.

"Oh, that's nice," he says, "do that again." He gathers her hair in one hand and holds it away from her neck, then lowers his head to nuzzle at the curve of her neck. His tongue comes out, slicking the way down to her shoulder, and his lips seal against her skin. He suckles there, rocking his hips against her back. Jo doesn't make a sound.

"It's okay," he says. "There's time."

He lets go of her hair, and his hands shift to her waist; slide around and up under her shirt to rest over her belly. Her muscles jump in revulsion, but she can't even suck in her stomach, can't do even as little as that. His fingers trail across her skin, dipping into her navel, easing up under her ribs, and her shirt rides up with his hands.

"God, you're smooth." He lets out a low moan that makes Jo's skin crawl. His hand moves higher, thumbs shifting against the bottom curve of her breasts. Her skin tingles from the lightness of the touch.

"You're so beautiful, Jo," he says. "Dean was never going to appreciate that. He's got so many problems, and the very least of them is ten times more important than you. I see it, though. I see it all."

His hands rise higher, cupping her breasts fully, fingers splayed wide, and he squeezes softly, _tenderly_ , a small noise of approval coming from deep in his chest behind her. "Oh, baby, this is going to be so good."

Everything inside her recoils from the touch, but all she can do is suffer it. She makes a sound, barely loud enough to hear, and it's no, no, no, but the word doesn't come, just that first sound, almost a moan.

His fingers trace over the fabric of her bra, then find the front clasp and hook it open easily. It parts, and she's bare to his hands. They slide over her skin, cupping and rubbing, smooth flat of his palm and the rough scrape of his calluses, and he puts his mouth on her neck again, drops small sucking kisses along the nape. "You taste so good," he says, his voice a low, hungry rumble. "Can I take your shirt off?" He waits, like she can answer, like he's waiting for it. "Guess I'll take that as a yes."

He raises her arms, pulls off the shirt and her bra, and she stands there outlined in the cool silver light from the window, naked to the waist. He sucks in a breath, then buries his face in her hair. His hands come back to her breasts, stroking, lifting, chasing shivers across her skin. The touches are like lightning, sparking off her nerve endings, shocking her with the intensity of sensation. The revulsion in her mind can't keep her skin from feeling, from coming alive as the breeze and his hands wander over her.

"It's good," he says softly. "Told you it would be. Look at you. You think you don't want this, I know you do, but your body knows better. Feel this?"

His fingers circle her nipples; they're up, hard little peaks, and the tugging, the squeezing, only makes them harder. Shame pours heat across her skin and she moans, humiliated. Tears roll out of her eyes, down her cheeks.

"I can make it even better," he says. He turns her, smiles into her eyes, warm and sweet and vicious underneath, like he's rotting from the inside. She hopes he is. "Let me make it better for you, Jo. You know you're aching for it. Feel how tight these little tits are." He sits down on the edge of her bed and tugs her to him; she stumbles, unable to work her own legs, but he catches her and stills her, pulls her into his lap. He tugs her hips until her crotch is pressed against the hard rod of his dick and she flinches, but can't move away. The heat of him bleeds through the front of her jeans, getting worse when he shifts, presses himself into her harder.

"Soon," he says, and the tone of his voice is both a threat and a promise. "For now..."

He lifts her, ducks his head, and his mouth closes over her right nipple, the sudden wet heat a shock after the cool night air. He laps at her, rubs his tongue over the tight head of her nipple over and over, suckles at it like a baby. Shocks of sensation punch through the wall of fear she's tried to build inside her, and she gulps in air, fighting for her own will, fighting for her own body, but getting no purchase.

"I like that," he says. "I like that a lot. Fight me some, Jo. Feels so good when you struggle a little."

Something in her eases. Just a touch, not enough. She can push against his chest but she can't budge herself; she can twist, writhe, but she can't free herself.

"Stop," she says, but her voice is barely a whisper. "Please, please stop. Let me go--"

He sucks hard at her nipple, drawing into his mouth, and moans against her skin. "Yeah," he says around it, his voice muffled, teeth scraping against her flesh. "Yeah, like that." He grinds into her crotch, his erection huge against her. "So pretty like this, just how I like." He switches to her other breast, and the little strength he's given her back isn't enough to pull away. It races through her, pulses of pleasure she can't stop, can't hide from.

"What did you do to me," she grates out through clenched teeth, "You fucker, what did you do--"

He raises his head, looks into her eyes. "Your body is mine now, Jo, that's all. It does what I want. You just get to come along for the ride. And oh, what a nice ride it's gonna be." He runs a finger down the center of her chest, over her belly, down to the button of her jeans; lower, until it rests just over her crotch. "This is mine already," he says, rubbing her through her jeans. She shifts away, just an inch, but his hand follows her. "Mine, baby," he says, and leans in to lick at her nipple again. "Your body wants me, feel it? So hot for me already. I could make you come like this, just this and I could wreck you with it." He smiles against her skin. "But don't worry. There's going to be so much more."

 _God, no, please_. Her mind feels numb, useless, a passenger in her flesh. "I don't want you," she whispers, "you can't make me want you, it's just games, it doesn't mean anything."

He lays her on the bed, stands over her and takes off his shirt, his jeans; strips down to nothing where she can see him, and it's like being divided -- half of her is terrified, screaming in her own mind, and the rest of her, the whole skin of her, is aching for another touch. She shivers, from fear and from cold, as he reaches down to unbutton her jeans. He lifts her hips to slide them down, takes her panties with them, and she lies there exposed to his eyes, unable to cover herself, almost unable to want to.

He climbs onto the bed, crosses over her body, his cock thick and hard and leaking as it trails across her skin. He lets it rub across her belly, slide over her hip. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back; his breath catches in his throat and he moans, open-mouthed, as he rubs himself against her.

"You don't know how this feels," he tells her. "You under me, hating me, wanting me so bad you can taste it. And he's right here with me, Jo, when I do this," and he jerks his hips against her, branding heat across her stomach, "or _this_ ," and he runs a hand up the inside of her thigh, tracing aimless circles across her soft skin. "He's going to come so hard in you, he'll remember it the rest of his life. You'll both thank me, later," he says, and laughs, and settles himself beside her on the bed.

He pulls at her thigh, rolls her onto her side and slides his leg between hers. He holds her against him, one hand cupping her breasts, toying gently with her nipples, and one sliding slow and sure down her her stomach.

She lies there, completely open to his touch, pinned in body and mind, and every touch is like a fire she can't fight, arcing down to the center of her. There's an emptiness in her, familiar but oh, so wrong like this, a craving to take the next step, to be touched, to be licked and kissed and rubbed. She knows he will, hates him for it, loves it; her hips twist under his hand and he chuckles, his breath a hot fan against her ear. "Slutty little girl," he whispers, "want me to touch you some more? Want my fingers, maybe? Here?" His hand presses warm over her mound, his fingers trail through the neat patch of hair, stroking at her lips, tracing the seam where they come together. "Want me to go deeper, Jo? Hmmm?"

 _No. No. God, no_. But his finger slides in deeper, into the heat of her, and she whines, a sound she's never made before, never wanted to hear before; she chokes on it, trying to stop it, but his touch sets up a buzz under her skin, a rising edge of pleasure so sharp it's going to cut her open when it peaks.

"God, you're dripping," he says. His voice is thick, stretched out. "So wet already, and I've barely even touched you, you little whore. You want it so bad you can taste it, don't you. Should've known you'd be like this, flashing your body at Dean like you did, giving yourself up with every look. You wouldn't have fought him, and look at you now, not fighting me, not fighting at all. Fucking hell, you're like lava down here," he growls, and his fingers press in further. He shifts his leg, hers outside it, and it opens her up; his fingers slide down through the wetness drenching her, and she presses up into it, helpless, out of her own control.

Good girl," he says, "yeah, so good, there's my girl," and he presses a long finger deep inside her, his palm pulsing against her heat. "But you know," he says, "you know, you have to know, you're not getting through it this easy."

He pulls his hand away, and it's almost the worst thing he's done. It leaves her cold and empty, her body flexing against nothing. He shifts, until he's crouching at the end of the bed, and lifts her legs over his shoulders. "What do you think, sweetheart?" he says. "Want my mouth on you? Want me to lick you till you're begging for it? Sam says no, but I have to tell you, I think he's lying. I think you do want it."

He lowers his head; his hands, hooked around her hips, hold her open wide. His breath flutters over her heated skin, cold and hot at the same time. "Don't," she manages on a gulp of indrawn breath. "Don't. Not that. I don't want you to. Please..."

"You can't stop me," he says gently. "That's what you need to understand. Nobody's coming for you. Nobody's stopping this."

"You don't have to do this."

"Have to?" He laughs. "I don't have to do anything. But what I'm going to do, sweet Jo, is lick you slow and easy until you're begging me to fuck you raw."

He lowers his head, and his tongue flicks out, lapping at the edges of her pussy; it's like he said it would be, it's slow, it's torture; her body screams for him to just do it, put his mouth where she needs it. He takes his time, tasting the outside of her hole, pushing his tongue in a little; stroking there, a while, before drifting further down. He shifts her body up and runs his tongue over the insides of her thighs, licking in broad strokes, leaving wet streaks drying on her skin; he breathes over her, slow pulses of humid heat that seem to wrap around her clit with invisible fingers and squeeze. It's not enough, it's nothing like enough, and she writhes under him, hands clenching in her bedsheets, moaning low and broken in the depths of her throat.

"Now," he whispers against her skin. He presses a kiss into the wiry hair at the top of her mound; and then another, his lips closed, on the hood that barely hides her clit.

And then his fingers pull at her, position her, stretch her open.

"Beg me," he whispers, his mouth so close it almost touches, almost drags over her slick skin. "Beg me or you get nothing. Beg me, and I won't fuck you, I'll leave you that. I promise."

Broken, inside and out, Jo says, "Please."

His tongue finds the wet, slick nub that's been begging for it, and she goes wild under him, a tangle of limbs and sheets, her back arched to a sharp curve off the bed.

It's slow. It's so, so slow. It has to be; she's bare to him, and the jolts his tongue sends through her are almost unbearable. He takes her like he can feel it, like he knows, the flat of his tongue rubbing over her soft, so soft, wet and hot and relentless.

"So perfect," he murmurs into her between long, easy licks, "so good, you don't even know. Such a pretty little slut, begging for it so easy, want you so bad, baby, me and Sam, both of us, want you so fucking bad..."

She fists her hands in his hair, driving him against her, but he's strong; he holds back, keeps up the rhythm he's set for her. His tongue heats her, inside and out; his spit slicks over her, mixing with her own juice, easing the way. He takes it so slow, building it and building it, eating her like she's his last meal on earth, until the wave breaks over her and she's coming off like a rocket, rubbing herself on his tongue, bucking up into his face. Her clit spasms, over and over, shock after shock, and then he's over her, her legs still craned over his shoulders; she feels the thick head of his dick rub over her clit once, another jab of pleasure, and then he's pushing in, filling her up with himself, sliding home with a grunt like an animal.

"Stop it," she cries, "God, stop it, you said, you said you wouldn't--" and he pulls out, a moment of hope before he crashes into her again.

"Sorry," he whispers into her skin, "sorry, I had to. I had to." He fucks into her, his mouth on any part of her he can reach, and she can fight now, she can move, she can scream, but she can't breathe and her legs are caught, her arms are useless. He's huge, and he rocks into her over and over and over, punching little gasps out of her with every stroke. "I had to," he says again, and his hand creeps down between them, he finds her slick, hot clit and rubs once, again, again, and it's like it never ended the first time, like he's never stopped for a second. Her body clenches around his dick, squeezing, milking, and it's so much better with something _in there_ , something she can take; she slams up to meet his next thrust and her arms go around his shoulders, and she screams with it, sobs with it, terrified of the intensity of it and terrified it will stop. Terrified it won't.

He makes a sound, deep in his throat; his body flexes, cock driving deep, and she can feel him; feel the pulse of his orgasm rocking through her own skin. He pumps himself dry, biting at her shoulders, her breasts, his back in an unnatural bow to keep his mouth on her skin.

When he stills, he stays inside her. Her pussy throbs around him, random spasms of ebbing pleasure. He lifts his head, smiling down at her, his fingers tangled in her hair. She's numb inside, crying inside. He didn't lie. Her body was his. _Is_ his.

He kisses her mouth, his tongue delving in, stroking over hers. She tries to turn her head, and can't. She tries to speak, and can't. He licks into her mouth, pulls back. Licks in again.

"Whore," he says sweetly, his eyes black as night, the glint of the moon cold in them, so cold. "I'll have you any time. I'll take you with me. You'll ache for me every time I touch you, and every time I touch you you'll die a little more inside. It's going to be so, so sweet." He trails his fingers down to her nipple and squeezes, so soft; it feels good.

"Let's do it again," he says. He moves, still hard inside her, eyes never leaving hers. She lays still, muscles frozen under his will.

He gives it to her, over and over, everything she hates. Everything she wants.

This.

 _This_ is the worst part.  


* * *

  
.end 

**Author's Note:**

> The amount of warning this story needs for non-con does not fit in a normal-sized post. Please consider this your gigantic, thirty-foot-flaming-letters-font warning for rape, rape, rape, and a bit more rape. In addition to the big old scarlet rape warning I'm tattooing across its chest, this story also involves mind control, forced orgasm, "rape fantasy" if you believe in such a thing (I do), and sexual slavery.
> 
> I originally wrote this for about a year ago, planning never to claim it. Then a while later I sent it to , to see if she thought I should claim it. Her response was that it was too dark for her and she didn't want to read it, but thanks. (I can hear laughing from all the way across the country.) She was always a big fan of owning your own kinks, though, so.
> 
> Anyway. The prompt spoke to me, what can I say? I've always felt that in the SPN universe, demons are a bit long on talking and short on actually being demonic. In this story, Meg's long on both.


End file.
